


The Taking Away

by jewelianna88



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 13:38:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jewelianna88/pseuds/jewelianna88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Renaissance AU.  It's the taking away that gives the marble grace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Taking Away

There were three things in JC’s world that he considered vital to his existence: food, because without that he grew weak and could not work; people, who provided him with inspiration for his work and knew when to draw him out of it before he went mad; and stone, which was the basis of his work. Three things, and if JC had nothing else besides them he would still be a perfectly content man.

However, that didn’t seem to matter to the tax collector, who stood expectantly in JC’s doorway, a heavy frown upon his face.

“Today, Signore. There will be no more extensions.”

“Yes, but. This statute, it is to be sold tomorrow, you see. I do not have the money until then.” The large marble stood in the midst of JC’s room, arms curving gracefully toward the sky. He called her The Midnight Dancer, for she had been inspired by a girl seen dancing in the courtyard at a party long after the music had ceased. Her owner was expected to return to Florence the next day after several days in Verona on business.

“Then perhaps you will pay in a trade,” the man said, eyeing the small carvings that lined JC’s walls. He looked to them helplessly. Any one of them would fetch enough coin at market to cover his overdue taxes, and yet. They were his life, his soul. The idea of peddling his wares to anyone would might wander along nearly broke his heart.

Yet, while JC only needed three things to live, he did enjoy the roof over his head and freedom to come and go as he pleased. Debtors prison was not kind to artists. He closed his eyes and gestured to the shelves. He watched as a piece of his collection was carted off by this brute who probably considered the arrangement of street stones to be high art.

**

“I have nothing,” JC said, dropping his head to the table at the local tavern. On one side of him, Giuseppe patted his back. On the other side, Tony refilled JC’s cup with wine. “The next time they come for my taxes they will find me hanging from the rafters.” The tax collector had taken a little woman named “Giuletta”, whom JC had loved for her carefree smile. He would miss that look each time he walked into his room.

“Perhaps you should take in an apprentice,” Tony suggested. “Surely there are many young artists who would be willing to learn from a master, who can afford to pay for such tutorage.”

JC lifted his head. “I am no teacher,” he mumbled. The idea of someone hanging around his work space, watching his every move, asking questions. He shuddered, drank, and dropped his head back to the table.

“But you are a desperate man,” Giuseppe said. “Sig. Ducello will not return from Verona for at least a month. He’s sent for his family to join him.”

JC groaned. The money from his statue, then, would not be coming any time soon. “I hate the wealthy.”

“As do we all, but we service their needs so that we might feed our bodies and souls.” Tony took hold of JC’s hair and pulled his head backward. “Get an apprentice,” he said again, “before debtors prison claims you. I don’t think they’ll let you take your tools with you there.”

**

JC had no idea how to go about securing an apprentice sculptor. He visited several of the other local artists, ones he knew had taken on students at various times, but none could offer any advice. The problem with the artists of Florence, JC thought grimly, was that they all followed the philosophy of destiny and fate. JC did too, most of the time. He hated when reality of taxes and stone payments dragged him back to the mundane humanity of the world.

He visited the stone merchant, to peruse the marbles and granites waiting to be carved. JC could usually see an image in the stone, begging to be revealed, to be set free. The woman at the water fountain, or the man throwing the discus. Sometimes he saw Apollo. Other times, it was the blessed Virgin. He had no clear understanding of where inspiration came from, only that it came to him in unquestionable clearness.

That day, there was nothing inspiring in the stone shop, and JC left without purchase, to the dismay of the stone seller. Merchants loved artists, JC thought wryly, men who acted on impulse rather than frugality.

Along the river, he wandered, watching the fishermen haul in the day’s catch. He’d spent nearly all of the daylight hours in the tavern with friends, and now the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore positively glowed in the setting sun.

He was so caught up in the beauty of it all, he very nearly ran into a young boy with blonde hair, running along the riverbank at full speed. JC caught him, holding him an arms width apart. “Slow down,” he ordered, instinctively.

The boy apologized in broken Italian, obviously in a hurry. JC looked over his shoulder to see another blonde man, slightly older, pushing his way through the crowd. They began to argue in a language JC did not understand, but the dramatic hand gestures seemed to convey the meaning perfectly clearly. The boy owed the other man money. JC watched as he argued fiercely for a few moments, before holding up his hands in defeat. From his pocket he drew a small blue velvet bag, and shook two gold coins into the other man’s hands. The other man, clearly surprised, pocketed the coin and walked away.

“You just lost me five ducets,” the boy said, with an accent JC could not place. “I made it all the way from England to Italy, only to be caught after I was off the ship.”

A stowaway, then, JC thought, though the boy did not appear to be a poor sailor or runner from the law. “A stowaway who can pay for his passage?”

“Money was not the reason. I did not want anyone to know I was going.” Justin picked up the knapsack he’d dropped when colliding with JC. “May I buy you dinner, then? You are the first person I have met in this new life.”

A strange turn of events, to be sure, but JC was never one to pass up a free meal.

**

“So I told them that I wasn’t going to marry her. Not that she wasn’t a lovely girl, for she was perhaps the most beautiful on the whole of the island, but I could not give up my passion so easily, to settle into a life of seasons and taxes.” Justin paused, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. “You understand that, don’t you?”

JC nodded, for the boy’s speech echoed clearly his outlook on life.

The boy smiled at him broadly. “I knew it. You’re an artist, aren’t you? I knew that I would find artists in Florence. I’ve come to study, to be a great artist. A sculptor, really.”

“I am a sculptor,” JC said, wondering what fates had connected the two of them. The boys eyes were as blue as the sky, his hair a deep golden color, like bread. It was fuzzy and curled, more so than JC’s. JC wanted to copy that, to cast it in stone, so that years from now he would be able to gaze upon this man with the fuzzy hair and sky-eyes. His nose was large, his hands even bigger, and when he tore at the hard bread, the muscles in his arms bulged becomingly.

He realized that he had begun daydreaming, because Justin’s lips were moving but he heard no sound. Shaking the fog from his head, JC asked “What?” and Justin stopped, stared, and started to speak again.

His Latin was formal, without any trace of the vernacular Italian that JC was most comfortable with, but with enough focus, JC could keep up. “May I see your studio?” Justin asked, “Would you should me your work?”

JC nodded, for he loved being able to share his work with people. Leaving the restaurant, he watched Justin take in Florence by twilight. The houses were lit with candlelight, warm glows behind dark windows. The cobblestones beneath their feet were hard to see in the dim lamplight.

JC pulled the boy across his threshold and down the narrow corridor to his room. He didn’t even know this boy’s name, but he knew that he was going to take him to bed tonight. When they were safely behind closed doors, JC lit the candles around his studio and let Justin’s study his artwork.

“These are yours?” Justin asked. He let his fingers linger over the large dancing woman in the center of the room, but his eyes were on the shelves where JC stored his smaller works. His heart still ached at the empty spot where his smiling woman had been, but Justin skipped right over it, studying each piece as if it were a holy relic.

“Yup. The marbles, here, and those few over there, the bronzes.” JC hated working with clay and metal. He did not like building art, but rather chipping away until he found it. Art was already there, it just needed to be revealed.

The boy carefully pulled his knapsack from his shoulder. “You did not tell me you were a master,” he said. There was something there, behind his eyes, a wanting that JC recognized. He was an artist, JC knew then, someone who had been long repressed from his craft.

Still, he carefully shrugged off the compliment, though the praise made his heart glow. “I do what I love. Most people agree it is good.” He would not claim to be unappreciated as some poorer artists might. JC had enough patrons to assure him of his talent.

“Will you teach me?” the boy asked. “I have come this far, searching for someone who could help me be an artist. I have left my family, my homeland, in search of art. I find it here, with you.” As an afterthought, he added, “I can pay you.”

JC looked at the boys long hands, imagined them holding his tools. The money would keep up the rent and the taxes, for sure. The worst that could happen was the boy would be awful. Somehow, looking at the earnestness on his face, JC did not think it to be true. This boy had the gift, he was sure of it.

“You’ll need a room,” he offered. “You may stay here, though I only have one bed.” It stood in the corner, unmade and unkempt. The boy glanced at it, and back to JC. He smiled at the implications of the statement.

“I do not mind sharing, if that is your offer.” His new student reached into his pocket and pulled several coins from the blue velvet pouch. He pressed them into JC’s hand. “This should cover the first month,” he offered.

JC closed his fist around the boy’s fingers, trapping them with the coin. “What is your name?” he asked.

“Justin,” he offered. “Of the north Timber Lake.” JC smiled at him, then, and pulled him closer. His free hand traced the graceful arch of Justin’s cheekbone.

“You’re very beautiful, Justin. I think I will have to carve you.” The boy shuddered underJC’s roving hands and licked his lips with an enticing pink tongue. JC could not help himself. He leaned forward to kiss in just that place, surprised when Justin lunged forward against him, trapping their hands and coins between their bodies.

Together, they moved to the bed, where Justin cried out in a foreign tongue as JC kissed all over his body until they rose and fell together in the rhythm of the creaking bed ropes. JC gave himself freely to anyone who wished to bed him, but Justin was different. He clung to JC when all was done and whispered “thank you” in his ear before kissing him gently and falling asleep in JC’s arms.

**

JC woke craving baked goods, loaded with melted butter. He stretched, surprised to find a hand resting on his stomach as he took a deep breath. Justin, he thought, and turned to study the boy who lay sleeping beside him.

He was as tall as JC, but gangly, like a colt, and perhaps not as young as he had first seemed. He was thin, not naturally so but the kind of skinniness that came from weeks without a good meal. He had eaten ravenously at dinner, JC thought. How could he have not noticed how hungry the boy was? If he was indeed a stowaway, he’d likely been more than a month without a decent supper.

Carefully extracting himself from the covers, JC crawled to the end of the bed and lifted a board and a piece of paper into his lap. With a bit of pencil he found stuck between two floorboards, JC wet the tip with his tongue and began to draw. Justin’s body was beautiful in sleep, completely relaxed. JC would carve him from a rosy pink granite, if he could find a worthy piece, and he could call him Fallen Angel, for Justin was only missing the wings. JC would add them, in stone, with feathers so delicate only God could have created them.

His subject stirred, and JC set the art aside. “Good morning,” he offered, and Justin gave him a sleepy smile. His stomach growled abruptly, and Justin covered it with his hand. “Do you want some breakfast?”

Justin grimaced. “Do you have something besides gruel?” he asked, though didn’t seem to expect JC’s laugh.

“Though I live like a pauper, I eat like a king.” JC smiled at him. “Get dressed and we will go find some food.”

The bakery was on the next block, and filled with customers on the busy Wednesday morning. JC pushed to the front of the line and smiled at Eva, the baker’s daughter.

“Evalina, when are you going to pose for me? Your beauty, it makes me weep that I cannot capture in with my hands.” JC reached across the counter, but the young woman smiled and stepped just out of reach.

“JC, when you find a man willing to marry the girl who takes off her clothes for the artist, I will pose for you. Until then, you wait until I am married and have a rich husband who will pay for copies of my body in your stone.”

Justin watched the entire exchange from a few feet back. “Who’s your friend?” Eva asked as she gathered together the rolls for JC. She added a piece of cheese to each one with a quick hand, fresh balls of mozzarella from the bowl of water behind the counter.

“My student, Justin. He’s from England.” JC turned around a bit, and Justin waved.

Eva waved back. She passed the rolls to JC, who smiled at her brightly. She sighed, hands on her hips. “And I suppose you’ll be paying me tomorrow?”

“As always, tomorrow,” he smiled, and jumped across the counter to kiss his her cheek, then dashed out the door as quickly as possible. JC hated crowds.

He handed Justin a roll as they strolled through the piazza, butter dripping from his fingers, the taste of bread and cheese heaven on his tongue. “We need to find you some inspiration,” JC said.

“What for?” Justin asked, carefully dodging a dog that ran away from its master in the square. JC stopped to rest by the fountain, a recent addition by one of the city’s many resident artists. Someday, he thought, his art would be displayed like this, for all of the world to see.

“What for, what for. How can you create art if you are not inspired?”

Justin shrugged and finished his breakfast. He licked his fingers, and JC’s body churned with arousal, remember Justin’s quick tongue by firelight the night before. “My artistic instructors always told me my inspiration was to be the Lord.”

JC made a sound of abject horror. Limitations such as that had no place in art. “Well, it’s fine to find inspiration in your faith, if it moves you. Tell me, Justin. Does it move you?”

“I suppose.” Justin seemed uncomfortable, perhaps unused to such intimate questioning. If he were to be JC’s apprentice, though, he would have to get used to it. JC had no censure when it came to art.

“Do you feel it, here?” JC asked, pressing a fist to his heart. “Here?” He let his hand wander lower, and Justin blushed. “Art, it cannot be simply created. It must be passion. It must call at you so much that to not create it would simply drive you mad.”

Justin looked at JC’s hand, still sitting in his lap, and blushed deeply. He averted his eyes. “I guess not the Lord, then.”

JC grinned. “You will find what you are looking for. Just open your eyes a bit wider.” Finishing his own breakfast, JC stood and stretched. “Let’s wander. I have a lady to purchase, and you have to find something inspiring.”

**

“I don’t see why you bought that,” Justin was mumbling, watching as JC cradled the small statue in his hands on the way home. “It was overpriced.”

JC’s heart wounded, and he stared at Justin. “She’s beautiful!”

“She is, but the man was clearly a gouger. You should have let me bargain. I’m quite good at bargaining.”

JC shrugged, not mentioning that Justin’s grasp of the Italian language was tentative at best. “I would have paid twice that price.” He opened the door and stepped into the dark hall, rushing back to return his lady to her place on the wall. She smiled back at him in the sunlight that filtered through the room. Perfect.

“She’s one of yours,” Justin marveled, and JC smiled at him. He moved around Justin to find some food for dinner. There was nothing in the cupboards but flour, so JC began to tally his friends, and which was most likely to have a meal. Giuseppe, probably. The only one of their small band who was married.

“I didn’t mean, what I said before. She’s surely worth much more than you paid.” Stammering, Justin sat on the table. JC turned to him and smiled.

“It’s fine,” he assured Justin. “So, tell me, did you find your inspiration?”

Justin shrugged. “I saw many things that would be beautiful sculptures.”

JC groaned, rolling back his head dramatically. “But did you find something that begged you to create it, something that you wanted to capture forever, something that your hands knew the curves of without even touching?” Justin remained silent, and JC shook his head. “Never mind. You will know it when you see it. Come,” he said, once again walking to the door. “We need to find some dinner.”

“Do you ever think of anything besides inspiration and eating?” Justin asked.

JC stared back at him, truly puzzled. “What else is there?”

Justin sighed. “Nothing. Let’s go.” He followed without another question, which JC thought to be a shame. If he were to have an apprentice, he’d rather it be someone who kept good company. Then he thought of Justin’s naked body in bed with him and realized there were some benefits to this new student after all.

**

Three days later, Justin still had not found his inspiration, but JC had a new piece of marble so it hardly mattered to him. On his first day of carving, he’d sent Justin out alone to explore. He hadn’t even noticed that Justin had not returned by dusk. A loud knock at the door finally pulled him from his work, and he reluctantly stepped away from the emerging figure of a boy, whose face did not yet show but would be laced with eagerness and reverence.

Giuseppe was at the door, with Justin. One of his hands rested protectively on Justin’s shoulder. “Look what I found roaming through the markets looking for some dinner.” Justin’s head was down, like an ashamed child, a runaway captured to his parents.

JC smiled at them. “You could have come back for dinner,” he said, but Justin just shrugged out of Giuseppe’s grasp.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he said. JC stepped aside so that Justin could come into the room, throwing his knapsack to a chair and walking straight back to the bedroom, separated from the rest of the space by a large red curtain.

“Thanks,” JC said to his friend, who waited by the door.

“JC, you can’t just send him out into the city when you want to work. You’re supposed to be teaching him.”

“How can I teach him to sculpt when he does not have any inspiration?” JC leaned against the door, exhaustion seeping into his bones. He’d worked long and hard throughout the day.

“I don’t know, give him a piece of rock or something and let him work. But he’s paying you, you can’t just shove him aside like he’s a child underfoot.” He smiled at JC, and clasped his shoulder, much like he’d been holding Justin earlier. “Just help him along, a bit. He’s a good boy.”

“He is,” JC conceded. “Alright, tomorrow he works with me.” They said their goodbyes, and JC went to Justin, who had burrowed into the pillows on the bed.

“Do you want to see what I’ve been doing today?” he asked, offering it as an apology. Justin didn’t move. “Justin?”

“If you didn’t want an apprentice, you should have just told me,” he mumbled into the pillow. His shoulders were tense under JC’s hand. “I would have found someone else.”

”No, Justin. I’m just. I’m used to working alone. It takes some adjustments. But you fit in well here.” He patted Justin’s round bottom once, for emphasis. “Come,” he said, drawing the boy up off of the bed. “I’ll walk you through what I’ve done.”

Carefully, he placed the tools in Justin’s hands and showed him the movements he’d made to chop off the rough edges of the stone, until there was a hulk of a body left behind. “So here,” he said, guiding the chisel downward over the sharp plane he’d carved earlier, “will be the back leg.”

“When do you cut the empty spaces?” Justin asked.

“Not for a long while. That is the most difficult part, for if you cut too soon you could misjudge the placement of the limbs and your whole figure will seem off balance and disproportional. Yet if you cut too late, you risk the limbs being too fragile and breaking as you chip away at the space.”

Justin’s hands fell away from the tools, taking to the stone to feel the hard edges of JC’s chisel. They crept to the top where JC’ hadn’t been able to resist a bit of detail work on the statue’s head. “You gave him curls,” Justin smiled.

JC set the chisel on his bench and let his own hands rest in Justin’s hair. “Inspiration,” he whispered, inches away from the boy, making him shudder. “Have you found your inspiration yet, Justin?”

Justin turned in his arms, allowing JC to press him back against the cold marble. It must have been uncomfortable, with all the rough cuts behind him, but he did not complain. Instead, he looked at JC with eyes that glimmered in the candlelight. “I think so.” He licked his lips, as bright red as the cherries JC had eaten with his breakfast that day.

“Then tomorrow,” JC said, lowering his lips Justin’s for a brief kiss. “You will carve.”

Justin smiled as JC kissed him again, letting their tongues mingle for what seemed like hours, until the candles had burned low. JC’s head was spinning by the time they separated and moved to the bed, shedding clothes as they walked through the darkness to rejoin in the comfort of blankets and sheets, all thoughts of his artwork gone as Justin’s body fell before him for ravishing.

**

JC handed Justin a piece of the marble that he’d chipped off the day before and a chisel, then sat him in the corner of the front room to work.

“But this is so small!” Justin complained. “I don’t have the skills to work on a piece this small!”

JC stared at him with humor and touched his own large stone. “Justin. Do you know what a piece of marble this size costs?” He quoted a price that made Justin’s eyes go wide.

“That much?”

“Yup. Which is why my art leaves me living the life of a pauper rather than that of a prince.”

“But you sell your works for a lot of money,” Justin protested. “That one over there, for the rich man. You said he’d pay enough for you to live on for months!”

“Months it takes me to carve the next one,” JC said. He eyed the marble in the center of the room critically, trying to decide where to begin. The hands, he thought. They needed to be revealed first so that the arm placement might be set.

“Why don’t you raise your prices?” Justin asked.

“Because then my customers would go down the street to the next sculptor and buy art from him.” JC’s chisel was cold in his hand, so he rubbed it quickly to warm. He’d had to wrap a piece of cloth across his palm to cover the blisters from yesterday. They’d bled into the night, even after Justin kissed them with soft dry lips.

He was poised to make the first chip, hammer drawn back, when Justin asked “So when do you think I’ll be ready to do a large sculpture?”

JC set the tools down, walked over to Justin and set his hands in position to work. He’d anchored the piece of stone to the table with a vise and given Justin files as well as the hammer and chisel. “Work,” he ordered, holding Justin’s hands there. When Justin nodded, JC lifted his hands off of them. Justin didn’t move.

“But what…” He was silenced with JC’s finger on his lips.

“No talking,” he said. “Work. I want to see what you can do. Then, we’ll talk about what you need to do better.”

Justin nodded, and kissed JC’s finger. JC took a step away, but Justin didn’t say a word. He picked up his chisel, and Justin sat frozen. Satisfied, JC began to work, and soon heard the clink of his chisel echoed in Justin’s hammerings behind him.

He hoped they wouldn’t have to go through such distractions every morning. Then again, the concentration on Justin’s face now would look excellent on the figure in his own stone. He would call it “The Apprentice,” and place tools in his hands. It would be part of his secular collection, he thought, and began to carve.

**

Curiosity kept him from doing his best work, and JC took a break at lunch time without much coercing from his rumbling stomach. Craving a rich creamy stew, he carefully cleaned the dust from his chisel and wrapped it in oil cloth so it would be ready when he returned.

“Do you want to find a meal?” he asked Justin, who looked up from his careful filing with amusement in his eyes.

“Do you ever think of anything but food?” he asked.

JC laughed. “Rarely. Come, bring your statuette with you and I’ll have a look at it.” Justin had been working diligently all morning, but with his back to JC. JC supposed that was to keep them both from being distracted, but he was very anxious to see the extent of Justin’s talents.

Still, Justin kept the small carving tucked into his knapsack as they stepped over JC’s stoop and wandered down the lane. There was a trattoria a few streets away that was known for the hospitality to poor artists, one where large windows opened to the square and bright awnings kept off the sun. Smiling, JC took Justin by the hand and led him over the cobbled streets.

“How old are you?” he asked, noting the frown of the garda across the square.

“Eighteen,” Justin said, nearly colliding with a man carrying a large stack of books toward the church rectory. There was a kind of summit meeting going on, JC knew, the bishop or some sort had come to town. JC was a good Christian on the high holy days and a lapsed parishioner during the rest of the year.

“No, that’s no good. If anyone is to ask you, you should say you are 16.” JC held the door open for Justin as they entered the soup shop, the smell of chicken broth and boiling vegetables immediately overtaking his senses. He breathed deeply, mouth watering in delight.

“But why?” Justin stopped in the middle of the aisle and stared at JC, curiously.

JC smiled and patted Justin’s cheek. “It is more acceptable for boys under 18 to do what you do. It’s for your own protection, you see.” He raised an eyebrow, and after a moment, Justin’s cheeks flushed in realization.

“Oh. I didn’t realize. You hear the stories of the Florentines, so. I assumed everyone did those things.” Clearly uncomfortable, Justin fiddled with his bag. JC wrapped an arm around his shoulder, holding him close to reassure, to square his shoulders once again. Justin was too bright of a candle to be stooped in the darkness, he thought, and quickly ordered for the both of them.

At a small table outside, JC could not wait for Justin to settle before digging into his meal. The broth burned the roof of his mouth and scalded his throat when he swallowed, but it was delicious.

Justin still looked somewhat embarrassed, and blew gently across his spoon before sipping at his chowder. He seemed to enjoy the flavor, eyes fluttering as it crossed his tongue. JC smiled.

“So, you have heard stories, then of the wicked things that go on here in Florence. Was that why you came to this city?” He teased, knowing Justin would only flush with embarrassment again.

But Justin shook his head. “No, the city is known as much for its art as for its sodomites. I came for the art, and prepared myself for a life of sodomy.”

JC blanched at the tone. “Is it not enjoyable for you, then?” Surely, when they were in bed at night Justin had not uttered a single complaint or even given a clue that he was uncomfortable or ashamed of their tryst.

“No, no. It’s very enjoyable.” A flush again crept up his cheeks, though for a different kind of embarrassment, JC was sure. “Very.”

Chuckling softly, JC sipped at a goblet of wine and smiled around the rim. He had thought as much. “But you have never been with a man before you came to Florence?” Considering that JC had met Justin nearly the moment he got off of the boat, he could not believe that this boy had been a virgin. JC had bedded his share of young virgins, and could clearly tell the difference. Justin moved with an innate sexuality that radiated through his entire being.

Justin looked around from the corners of his eyes and smiled a bit wickedly at JC. Oh, that was a look that deserved to be painted, if only JC had the skill with a brush. “I had to convince an officer of the ship to help me stow aboard. He was a native of this city, and a good teacher.”

JC’s mouth watered again, not for the meal but at the image of Justin on his knees, surrounded by ropes and barrels and other nautical paraphernalia. Oh, to have been a witness to that event, JC mused. Perhaps he could find some rope and ask Justin to reenact the event.

The thought had him squirming in his chair, cock hardened under his tunic. He left the spoon on the table and slurped the rest of his meal directly from the bowl, pleased when Justin followed suit.

“Come,” JC begged, tugging Justin away toward a dark alley behind the church that was never used on a weekday. There, sheltered by the high walls of the cathedral, he pulled Justin to him, urging their cocks together. He pulled up his tunic, and Justin’s, letting Justin shove down his pants until he could feel the heat of bare skin against his thighs. Justin’s mouth found his, and JC turned them, pressing Justin against the wall.

“Your boots,” JC breathed, biting at the skin of Justin’s neck. He was salty with sweat, delicious as JC licked behind Justin’s ear, nose tickled by Justin’s curly hair. Justin stepped from his boots clumsily, using JC’s as support to keep from tumbling to the ground. With one shoe free, he was able to shimmy out of his leggings and spread his legs wide.

JC grabbed beneath Justin’s ass and lifted, letting his hands run over the smooth skin of his ass, down to the soft hairs on the backs of Justin’s thighs. Their mouths remained fused, hot as a kiln, slick and wet as they kissed and kissed. The fierce fire boiled inside of JC, as Justin’s hands wiggled inside the neckline of JC’s tunic and rubbed at the tense muscles of his neck. He laughed when JC pressed him back more, and his teeth caught JC’s mouth in the next kiss, clunking together painfully. Even that did not deter them.

Without any oil or grease, JC was forced to improvise. If his mind had been functioning, surely he could have thought of a way to make up for that, but he was completely wrapped up in Justin.

One of Justin’s legs hitched up around JC’s back, kicking JC in the ass, clinging to him like a vine. JC pushed him back harder into the wall, cock throbbing with imminent release. He’d all but stopped breathing when he felt his stomach quiver, lightening coursing through his body as he came, spurting out between their stomachs. Justin’s hands immediately came to his cock, keeping JC in orgasmic bliss until there was nothing left for him to give.

He bowed his head to Justin’s shoulder, and with the last of his energy, pressed tightly to Justin again so that Justin’s hand was trapped tightly between them. With a wiggle of his fingers, Justin pumped himself quickly and came. JC caught his head so it did not crack against the wall, and kissed his open mouth until he stopped shuddering and smiled happily.

JC laughed, deep from his belly, not because he was amused but just overly happy. It had been a long time since he’d taken a lover willing and able at any whim. Justin pulled up his pants with a similar smile on his face.

“You never looked at my statue,” he said, taking JC’s hand and pressing into it a piece of cool marble. JC squeezed Justin’s fingers over the statue.

“Let’s go into the light,” he said, “and I’ll give you a proper appraisal.”

**

Justin’s work was magnificent. The proportions weren’t quite right, but his tiny statue of a child sleeping had an elegance that JC would have thought impossible from the hands of a beginner.

“This is beautiful,” he murmured, turning it in his hands. Justin smiled happily beside him.

“I had two half-brothers,” he explained. “I met them briefly before leaving England. They were quite terrible while awake, but sweet sleeping.” He reached to the head of the figure, carefully stroking the carved locks of hair.

“Do you miss your family?” JC asked. His own parents resided far off, in southern France.

“A bit,” Justin offered. “My mother and I were close, but she wished for me to follow in my father’s footsteps. Though artists are respected here, it is not so in England.”

JC could not imagine living in a place where art was not revered second only to God. Or perhaps the order was reversed, though such confessions would be heresy. “Well, I am glad to have you here,” he professed. “You have quite a skill with the chisel.”

“Tell me how to make it better,” Justin insisted, and JC smiled. He began to explain proportion and Justin bent his head close, nodding seriously at intervals.

A perfect apprentice, JC thought, before losing himself in the world of art.

**

They browsed the marble shops on the way home, in case a new shipment had arrived unexpectedly.

“Chasez,” JC heard and turned, expecting to find one of his fellow artists also walking through the aisles of stone. Rather he was met with a face he had not seen for years.

“Buonarroti,” he greeted with a nod. “I thought you’d been called to Rome to paint.” He sneered at the last word, for it had been the joke of Florence that the master sculpture had left to paint a mural for the pope. It had been years since JC had seen him.

“It is a masterpiece, unlike any one has ever seen. However, I’ve returned to visit my family for my parents’ anniversary celebration begins tomorrow.”

“JC, the shopkeeper says there’s a shipment from the hills coming Thursday.” Justin approached, smiling at JC’s side. He dipped his head in greeting to the other man.

“And who is this?”

“My apprentice, Justin.” JC slid an arm low across Justin’s back.

“Guistino. A true David.” The other man grazed the edge of Justin’s jaw with his knuckles. “You are the lucky one, Chasez.” To Justin, he offered a smile. “When JC has no more to teach you, come to find me.” He left JC and Justin in the shop, JC fuming, Justin gawking.

“Who was that?” Justin asked, fingers playing with the lace at his wrists.

JC shook his head. “One of the great artists of our city.” JC wished he were as talented with a chisel as that man, but no one yet had matched his genius. Perhaps Justin would

Justin shrugged. “He can’t be as good as you.”

Such faith and loyalty warmed JC’s heart, and the anger faded out of him. Justin patted his shoulder gently. “Come. You must show me how to better measure hands.”

JC went, forgetting about the encounter as his mind once again focused on the boy who wanted to learn.

**

Justin grew ill as summer ended. JC worried greatly that it might be plague, but the boils never appeared. Still, the fever raged, and JC spent night and day worrying over the boy, washing his head with cool cloths as JC’s mother had done when he was ill as a child. Finally, the fever broke, after more than three days of fear, easing death’s grip on Justin’s limp body. JC fell into a dreamless sleep for nearly a full day as soon as he knew that Justin was safe.

When he woke, his stomach grumbled ravenously. Rubbing it, JC dressed in clean clothes and tried to comb out his wild hair. He should have bathed, for the stench of sickness clung faintly to his body, but he was too hungry to wait. After a quick check found Justin’s sleeping peacefully, JC left in search of food.

At the tavern he ordered venison and partridge, a feast fit for a king. He had the ducats to pay for it, having sold a few small figures two weeks prior. His friends were there, a welcome surprise, and made room for JC to sit at their table.

“How is Justin?” Giuseppe asked, pouring JC wine from the carafe. JC sipped slowly before answering, letting the full-bodied brew seep into his tongue.

“On the mend.” He shoveled a bite of meat into his mouth, nearly swooning as the juices mingled deliciously.

“Good. I’ve grown rather used to the boy, I’d hate to lose him now.” Cristoforo smiled across the table. He was the son of a sea merchant, and one of JC's most beloved patrons. He was also one of the city's most notorious sodomites.

JC grinned. He’d grown used to Justin too. In fact, the longer Justin was around, the fonder JC grew of him.

Next to him, Tony nudged JC with an elbow. “I’d say JC was just thinking the same thing,” he jested, earning a laugh from the rest of the table and a blush from JC. He wished, sometimes that he wasn’t so transparent.

“Is that true?” Giuseppe asked quietly from JC’s other side. JC turned his head, licking gravy from the corner of his lip. He picked up his wine so that the cup might hide some of his expression. “Have you gone and fallen for him?”

It was the moment JC had been dreading. Having an affair with a younger man was par for the course in Florence. Though sodomy might be officially decried by the church, it was far more common and accepted in Florence than elsewhere in the world.

To carry on as lovers, though, was a different thing entirely. Young men were effeminate, a suitable use for sexual activities. Grown men attracted to each other was thought of as sinful, something to be carried out behind closed doors. JC had never expected to be one of those men, anticipating that as he grew older he would take a wife and raise a brood of children.

“I’m not sure,” he answered Giuseppe honestly, for his emotions were conflicting. Each day it was harder to imagine life without Justin. He was a light, keeping JC on his toes and out of his foul moods. No one had ever been able to enliven JC in such ways before.

Giuseppe frowned, worry creasing his face, but before he could say another word, Cristoforo began to question JC again about his next commission, shifting the conversation away from love to art.

Funny, JC thought. While he had always had a hard time distinguishing between the two topics before, they now seemed forever fused.

**

Justin became a constant in his life more quickly than JC would have expected. He grew accustomed to the litany of questions that would punctuate his day, and the smiling face that awaited him each evening. Justin was most always in a sunny mood, except when he was working.

“What do you think?” he asked, holding up a table-top figure about the same size as JC’s prized Giuletta. JC appraised the figure, marveling at how quickly Justin had learned.

“It’s magnificent,” he replied, standing the figure on a pediment of wood. It balanced perfectly, a tiny stone woman raised on tiptoes in an elegant dance. “I would never have expected this pose.”

“It’s how I imagine the Vestal Virgins would have danced,” Justin confessed. “I have been reading, some, and they are fascinating.”

JC hummed, not having much to contribute. Though he enjoyed the study of the Romans, he was much more fascinated with the writings of Dante. The circles of hell fascinated him.

“Will you help me create another one?” Justin asked, already eying a hunk of marble that JC had chipped off that morning.

JC grinned. He would give Justin anything that he wanted. Slowly, he was falling in love with the boy.

**

Tony’s brother became betrothed on a Tuesday, and during the weekend following the Lucca family hosted a magnificent party to celebrate the engagement. The Lucca family ran a city outside of Florence, and threw the best festivals and galas in all of Italy. Though JC did not travel in the elite circles, he knew them through Tony and thoroughly enjoyed such events. They were both joyous social occasions and a chance to meet new clientele. When he arrived, he saw several wealthy patrons of the arts, including two Medici cousins.

There was wine aplenty and though the hose itched at JC’s legs when he sweated, JC threw himself into dancing. All of the furniture had been cleared from the grand room of the house, giving ample space for the dance.

As he moved, JC lost track of Justin, who’d come along reluctantly at JC’s begging. He was far from the only boy in the room. Many had brought their playthings. Inwardly, JC winced, for he didn’t think of Justin that way at all.

The music was loud and an army of candles kept the darkness at bay. JC found himself deep in conversation with Cristoforo.

“A nude, I’m thinking. For a change.”

“Cristoforo, you always ask for nudes,” JC answered with a grin. The short, dark haired man had a fondness for artwork featuring young males without clothes. Last time, it had been a tiny David with a sling.

“Do I now? I wonder why.” Smiling, Cristoforo waved across the room and JC watched as a young man crossed to them. He was quite tall with sandy hair that fell into his eyes. His doublet was blue brocade with gold trim, no doubt a gift from Cristoforo.

“Meet Nico,” Cris said, sliding a hand around to grip the boy’s bottom. The boy flushed, a combination of embarrassment and arousal as he shifted uncomfortably.

JC smiled and greeted the boy warmly. Cris was as notorious for his collection of teenage lovers as he was for his fondness of their likenesses in art.

Justin arrived then with two glasses of wine, pressing one delicate stem between JC’s fingers. He sipped, the bitter, dark liquid coating his throat.

“My apprentice,” JC said. “Justin. He’s from England.”

Cris raised an eyebrow. “This city has become rotten with foreigners. First the French, and now the British.”

JC kicked at him for that, making him dance backward and spill his wine to avoid bruised shins. Nico produced a handkerchief and carefully mopped up stray drops of liquid from Cris’s heavy velvet doublet. If his hand lingered a bit too long, no one commented on it.

“Perhaps Justin will carve for you,” JC offered. “He’s quite skilled already.”

Cris’s attention turned. “Really.”

Justin beamed. “I am still learning. But I can do it.”

“Will you carve my Nico?” Cris asked, pulling the boy once more into his embrace. Justin took his time studying Nico, enough that JC felt jealousy creep up on him, tiptoeing into his belly and resting uneasily there. It was not a pleasant feeling.

Tony came by with the bride-to-be, and congratulations were offered. JC was glad they lived in Florence, where men were not pressed to take a bride until they had shed all vestiges of youth. He had many more years before people would start whispering about his bachelorhood.

“Why do you not have a wife, yet?” Tony asked Cristoforo, for he was the only one of their small band who was of marrying age.

Cris flashed them a wicked grin. “Then what would the boys of the city do, without me to service them?”

They all laughed, but JC’s stomach churned a bit. Sodomy was all well and good for the young but the Officers of the Night prosecuted older men with must more diligence.

Yet, if Cris was not concerned, their neither would JC be. With a toss of his head, he drank the last of the wine and returned to dancing.

**

Day by day, they worked in the same manner. Each day, JC found himself more fascinated with the apprentice. Each day, Justin’s skills grew, until his creations could nearly rival JC’s.

Cristoforo came by with an order for a nude, and JC assigned Justin to the task. Justin had blushed at Cristoforo’s specifications, but begun work earnestly the next morning, tackling the first table-top piece of marble that JC had given him. JC’s creation, meanwhile, slowly took shape in the center of the room. If Justin had realized that he was the subject, he had not yet said.

Socially, Justin flourished in the Florentine life. They dined with friends or at rousing parties nearly every night. Giuseppe hosted large gatherings on each of the feast days, giving Justin ample opportunity to meet potential clients and JC the chance to show off his magnificent young lover.

When Nico came to pose, Justin blushed at his nakedness and stood him near the window. JC had chosen this apartment specifically for its windows over the river, so that nude models would not be gawked at by every person on the street.

“Like this,” Justin said, raising Nico’s arm in a rather unorthodox pose. He stood him as an ancient discus thrower and began to sketch. JC was rather surprised that Justin would choose such an Athenian pose, for he had never shown JC much interest in the Greeks. Still, JC watched under the guise of working as Justin’s quick fingers moved charcoal over paper to draw Nico’s body from several different angles. JC had seen him drawing before, but Justin kept his pages rolled and hidden from sight. Had they spent more time apart, JC might have snuck a look at them, but it seemed there was scarcely a moment that he and Justin were not together.

He would not have had it any other way.

**

They went for a ride together to Cortona in a borrowed wagon, with the intentions of delivering a statue to a wealthy man there. JC’s Apprentice had fetched a handsome sum, and he was anxious to begin his next project.

Though the Tuscan countryside they rode, over the gently rolling hills all quilted with farms. Justin smiled into the sun.

“Does this remind you of England?” JC asked. Justin thought for a moment.

“The countryside is much the same, though England is green where Florence is golden. The sun is brighter here, and the trees are very different. It is farms, yes, but it is not like home.”

“Do you miss it?” JC was curious, for people often asked him if he missed his family in France, and he didn’t, at all. Florence was home.

“Some. I miss my mother, though she is happily remarried now. I did not know my father well enough. There was scandal, there, which is part of the reason I wanted to leave.”

JC did not press. Rather, he slid across the seat of the wagon to press his side closer to Justin. They could not be affectionate in such open territory, but he could sit closely without arousing suspicion.

He cared for Justin, deeply. He did not like to think about the circumstances that had driven Justin to flee England. It was hard to picture Justin as anything other than the bubbly student who had taken up such a big part of his life.

“This is fun,” Justin said suddenly, stretching his arms over his head. “Being out of the city, with you. Doing things that aren’t work.”

“It is,” JC laughed, holding the reins loosely in his hands. “You’ve changed my life, Justin. I hope you know that.”

“Well, you’ve changed mine too. For the better.”

“For the better,” JC agreed. They drove along laughing, in casual conversation for the rest of the trip.

**

JC traced the line of Justin’s cheek with the back of his knuckles, letting the scruffy skin prickle his fingers. Justin’s eyes fluttered open. It was early morning and not yet light.

“What are you doing?” he asked, blinking at the light. JC laid a soft finger across Justin’s lips.

“I’m working. Memorizing you.” He went back to touching, feeling the jut of bone at the back of Justin’s jaw and the soft spot beneath his ear. When he carved Justin, this Justin, sleepy and sensual, he wanted it to be perfect. The other statues only used Justin as inspiration for a different figure. JC wanted to cast this Justin in stone, so that he would always remember Justin this way. It was a work of art that, when finished, he would not sell.

Justin closed his eyes again and soon his breath evened. JC slid down the sheets and began again his caresses. He measured with his fingers and with his palms the distance between shoulder and elbow, rib and navel, collar and nipple. Then, when he felt that he knew Justin’s body as well as his own, he curled up beside him in the morning sunlight and went back to sleep.

**

Justin finished the statue of Nico just days before the festival of St. Michael, and Cristoforo arranged for it to be delivered in time for the celebration. He sent a cart for it, riding with the driver to inspect the immense statue. JC stood back and watched as Justin presented his first commissioned piece.

“What do you think?” he asked nervously, rubbing his hands on his thighs.

Cristoforo walked round the figure twice before breaking into a smile and clapping happily. He pulled Justin into a dance, singing merrily as they flittered about the curb. JC couldn’t help but laugh, happiness bubbling up inside him. He was so proud of Justin, so immensely happy.

Together, they hefted the heavy marble into the back of the wagon, tying it securely for the bumpy ride back out of town. Justin clutched his coins tightly as Cristoforo drove away, his first payment. It was a meager sum, compared to the funds he’d brought to Florence months ago, but it was money earned with his own hands, payment for an artistic creation he’d made himself. JC knew that money was more valuable than any pilfered inheritance.

“How does it feel?” JC asked, waiting until they were inside to kiss Justin’s cheek. Justin grinned broadly, teeth gleaming.

“Wonderful. No, better than that. I don’t even think there are words,” he said. He surged against JC, kissing him passionately, dropping his bag of coins with a clink on the table. His hands came to JC’s head, holding him in place. When he drew back, JC sucked in a ragged breath.

“Thank you,” Justin said reverently. JC smiled and kissed him again, glad to share this moment with his apprentice, a boy who he’d grown to love.

**

The day came too soon that JC had been dreading. Thanks to Cristoforo’s references, Justin received a commission from Milan, calling him away. JC bit his lip while Justin told him, gnawing at it until it bled.

“I could work here,” Justin said. “We could ship the statue when it was complete.” He said it hopefully but with sorrowful eyes, for both of them knew that something of that magnitude could never be carried in a wagon.

“It’s time,” JC said, and though Justin’s eyes welled with tears, he nodded. JC let Justin draw him close and pull his head to Justin’s shoulder. He closed his eyes and breathed in Justin’s scent as the last rays of sunlight fell through the windows. Slowly, they danced to the music of the settling city. Swaying in each others arms, JC felt that this was perhaps the most content he had ever been in all his years on earth. He had once thought that he needed nothing more in life than marble, friends, and food. He had been wrong. He needed Justin, to feed his heart and nourish his soul.

JC lifted his face for a kiss, a soft gentle caress of Justin’s lips against his. His mouth was salty with running tears, a mingling of drops from both of their weeping eyes. With a curving tongue, Justin touched at JC’s mouth, urging him to open. JC complied, letting Justin explore and taste what had become familiar territory in their year together. He let Justin love him because he knew that Justin needed to love this one last time before leaving.

Justin left his mouth, nuzzling into JC’s neck before kissing at his pulse, feeling the beat of his heart beneath his skin. JC reached between them and untied his cloak, tossing it to the chair in the corner, loosening his collar so that Justin’s mouth could venture future, delivering loving kisses against his skin. JC’s body burned with desire, as hot as hell from the inside out.

Justin smiled into his neck, and JC could feel the curve of his lips. “You shouldn’t wear such fussy clothes,” he said with a laugh, infectious because JC laughed too and tugged at his clothes until the outer layers were all off and he stood in his undergarments as Justin stripped bare. Justin lifted JC’s feet one at a time and slid off his shoes, rolling his tights down his legs, using his hands to rub briskly at JC’s thighs so they would not be cold once bare. When he stood, JC pulled his close with a hand behind Justin’s neck and kissed him again.

Slowly they moved to the bed, where the soft mattress cushioned their fall. JC’s knees sunk into the coverlet as he knelt over Justin. The muscles in Justin’s stomach trembled as JC walked his fingers down the ridges of skin to Justin’s swollen cock. It was hard and leaking in his hand, moist and hot as JC enclosed it in his fist. He slid his hand back and forth in a quick motion, eliciting a groan from Justin. Justin’s shoulders tensed at the touch, tightening even more when JC bent to lick at the tip of his cock. JC turned his neck so that he could watch his face as he sucked on Justin’s cock, up and down. Justin’s face flushed, a reddish glow falling down his neck to his chest, and when JC felt Justin’s thighs tightened beneath his hands, he backed off, not wanting to end this so quickly.

Rather, he fell back up on the bed next to Justin and claimed his mouth once again. They kissed for ages, it seemed, like all of time might have stopped or gone on for centuries. JC wouldn’t have known. Justin’s mouth was wet and slick, and his hands warmed JC’s back with soft movements and tender caresses.

“Love you,” Justin whispered, and he said it in his own language so that JC didn’t understand except the meaning was perfectly clear. He answered in the vernacular, in Latin, and in words that weren’t spoken but said through touches and smoldering looks. Justin’s eyes hung half-open, gaze fixated on JC above him. It made JC feel like he was the center of the universe.

Finally, though, JC’s cock demanded attention, achingly hard where it pressed against Justin’s hip. He arched his back like a rising snake, gazing down at Justin from a greater distance, watching the pout fall away from Justin’s lip to an easy smile. Justin slid his legs apart and urged JC between them. The hair of his thighs ruffled against JC’s hipbone as he crossed his ankles behind JC’s back.

“Like this,” Justin pleaded, reaching for the pot of oil that JC kept by the bed. He passed it to JC and lay back to enjoy the sensation of first one, then two curious fingers pressing into his body. JC watched, fascinated as always at the way Justin’s body stretched for his fingers, knowing it would open even wider when his cock pressed into that tiny opening. Justin let out a soft gasp with each thrust, letting JC know he was pressing against that magical place inside. He forced himself not to rush, to drag out this one last preparation, to make it last.

JC slowly withdrew his fingers, letting Justin pant for a few precious seconds while he slicked oil over his cock, tightening his fist so he didn’t come too soon. He pressed into Justin, slowly, taking a few tries before finally sinking in, gloriously hot and tight, slippery and oh, tight. This was paradise, this was Eden, and everyone who said otherwise was just plain wrong. He slid all the way in, then slowly lowered himself until he could kiss Justin’s lips, teasing them awake as Justin moaned with each twist of JC’s hips. They fell into a perfect rhythm, a horizontal dance that squeaked the ropes of the bed in beautiful music.

Justin’s body was on fire beneath JC, burning into JC’s skin at every place they touched. His skin was dappled with beads of sweat that smeared into a glossy sheen when JC touched them with his mouth, tasted with his tongue. Justin’s ankles dug into JC’s back, not painfully, but urgently, pulling him closer, pressing him in deeper. He whispered words of love with each puff of breath, a chant that blended with the creaking bed perfectly in JC’s ears. His own body flowed in an unstoppable motion, thrusting in and out of Justin’s body as fully as possible. Every nerve in his body was alive.

Between them, Justin reached for his own cock, hand squashed between their bodies. JC reached to help, and together, they jerked their hands back and forth, fumbling to find motion without separating their mouths. They kissed as Justin tensed up, on the brink of explosion, and they kissed as he came in sticky streams over their joined hands and bellies. JC let Justin slow the movements until he was spent, gingerly holding his cock against his belly as JC drew back a bit and kissed him lightly. Then, with renewed vigor, he began to thrust again, watching as pleasure one against flushed Justin’s cheeks a rosy red.

His toes curled with anticipation and his balls tightened. JC slowed his rhythm, trying to draw out the moment, but instinct won out over rationality and with one last deep thrust he came inside of Justin’s body, quivering as each spurt left his cock. He slowed even further, into a lazy ebb and flow until his arms gave out and he collapsed against Justin’s body, the sticky mess smeared between them. Justin cradled the back of JC’s head in his hand and angled it for another kiss.

“I love you,” he said, and JC murmured back the same words. Sleepily, he pulled the sheets up over them and nestled into sleep.

In the morning, Justin was gone.

**

Six months later, JC stood in large room and looked around. It was more space than he needed for one, but he could afford it now. Someday, he thought, he would be forced to take a wife, and she would appreciate the extra room. The idea made him shudder, so he pushed it aside and walked across the wide wooden floorboards to the window, where he could see into the busy piazza. He would have liked a room on a higher floor with more of a view, but his marbles were too heavy to be carried up and down stairs. This would suit him.

“What do you think?” the owner asked, clearly in a hurry to be on his way. JC wavered for only a moment before making a decision.

“I’ll take it,” he said. “On the first of the month.”

The owner agreed and pocketed JC’s coin greedily before ushering him back out into the street, careful to lock up behind him. He left JC there in the piazza to explore his new neighborhood.

A fresh start, JC thought, taking in the surroundings, looking for inspiration. He’d be getting his bread from a new baker and his clothes from a new tailor. No matter. He needed to do something to purge Justin from his life, and this was as good a first step as any. A new direction, he thought, as the sun beat down from the clear blue sky. A new home.

He hoped it would bring him a longer lasting happiness than the last.

**

With the move and several new commissions, it took JC a while before he got back to the old neighborhood to visit friends. He dropped by the Fatone house in late fall, hoping that Giuseppe would be in. He was, and invited JC to stay for a meal. They sat in Giuseppe’s kitchen, wiling away a lazy Sunday. The scents of their lunch clung to the air, sausage and bread pudding. Giuseppe’s wife had left to bring the babe to her parents for a visit, giving the two men privacy to talk.

“You should have heard him,” Giuseppe proclaimed. JC had settled into his new apartment as easily as he could imagine, though he still dreamt of the rooms by the river and his former apprentice. “He preached with such fire, such brimstone. You could almost see hell the way he described it.”

JC twirled an apple on its stem, only half listening. There was a new priest in town, a man named Savonarola who took offense at nearly everything Florentine. JC had no doubt that he would be driven out as quickly as he came in.

“JC?” Giuseppe’s voice was laced with concern as he plucked the spinning apple from JC’s fingers, the red of its skin blending with smudges of paint on Giuseppe’s fingers. JC smiled at the colors. Giuseppe just frowned. “You’ve got to stop this.”

“Stop what?” JC asked, picking up another piece of fruit from the basket at his feet. He bit into it, the tart juices shocking on his tongue.

“Stop this mooning over your English boy.” Giuseppe used his knife to peel the skin from the apple and eat it in long strings. “You’ve wasted too much time on him already.”

JC only shrugged. He knew that if Giuseppe’s wife were to leave him, he would be twice as moody and miserable. There was a great love between them, something that JC appreciated fondly.

“Perhaps you should get a new apprentice.”

JC bit his tongue and the taste of blood swelled coppery in his mouth. The idea of someone else stepping into Justin’s shoes was simply unbearable. He knew that his teaching days were long over. No one else would ever measure up to Justin’s talents or his charisma. It simply wasn’t possible, and JC did not have the ambition to live with mediocrity.

“Then, perhaps, a new lover.” Giuseppe’s eyebrows danced and his mouth quirked in a tiny smile, but JC still did not acquiesce.

“I think I’m just. I don’t know. Destined to be alone at this point in my life. I have a few years before marriage. I will dedicate them to my craft, and reassess when the time comes.”

Giuseppe looked at him sadly, but JC said no more. He took another bit of the apple, the fruit stinging on his injured tongue.

**

Savonarola did not go away, shocking JC with the realization that Florence was changing. The Officers of the Night swarmed through the city, taking away more and more suspected sodomites. Word of the tortures that suspects went through slowly crept back through the streets, crawling like ghosts, whispering in the ears of the guilty that they had better beware. JC did not worry, for it had been years since he had taken a Florentine boy. But he watched as his friends and colleagues were taken away, only to return as somber shadows of their formerly vivacious personalities.

But it was not only the lovers who were subject. Art too was condemned for its wicked sensuality. Even the most pious of art was suddenly deemed too sinful, too alluring, too graphic for the conservative flagellant priest. There were burnings and collections that rocked the city to its core. JC hid his statues under the bed and in dark corners whenever there was a knock at the door. He watched as one of Giuseppe’s paintings was carted away from the palace, and a Boticelli masterpiece lit on fire. Tears sprung into his eyes, weeping for the loss of the city that was not his native land but his home nonetheless.

“What will you do?” Cristoforo asked as he came to pick up a commissioned piece one evening. They were forced to do their dealings under the cover of night, now, a shame that haunted JC acutely as he tightened the ropes on Cristoforo’s wagon.

What would he do. JC wasn’t sure, so he only answered with a shrug. There was little money to be made as an artist now. He could leave the city, to go to Rome or Pisa, or perhaps Venice with its many islands. There was still a call for sculptors in the churches there. “I’m not sure,” he answered sadly, stroking the curved arm of his statue one last time before covering it with a tarp.

“I’m leaving Florence,” Cristoforo confessed, looking at his boots as he spoke, as if ashamed that he was giving up so easily. “It’s not safe for my kind here anymore. The only reason I have not yet been taken is they are scared of my fortune.”

JC nodded sadly, knowing that it meant the loss of his main patron. “You will be missed,” he said. Cristoforo nodded.

“Come with me,” he blurted out suddenly, and JC looked up in surprise. “I mean it. I have a chapel at a house outside of Naples. It needs an altar and other carved things. Come with me, and I’ll give you complete control.”

JC smiled. Naples was south, and likely to be warm. It was outside of Savonarola’s control. “When do we leave?” he asked, not giving it another thought.

**

Naples was vastly different from Florence. The sun set over the ocean, giving the world a glow of colors that JC had never thought possible. He wished he was a painter, sometimes, to be able to capture such beauty. He instead relegated himself to working with more native stones, tinted pinks and reds that gave new life to his sculpture.

The altar was nearly completed on his first anniversary there. He watched as Cristoforo circled the work in progress, touching the featureless faces as if he could see what would be. JC could see them, but only in his head as of yet.

“What do you think?” he asked, waiting nervously. Cristoforo had become a close friend and companion to him in the year they had spent together. When Cristoforo’s boy had abandoned them for the lively life in Rome, JC had been there as a comfort. Though they had not lain together, a bond had formed between them, a comfort much like that of an old lover. Despite this, it was the first time Cristoforo had seen the altar, which stood proudly at the front of his small chapel. When he began to nod and smile, JC relaxed and breathed happily.

“It’s beautiful.” JC had chosen to depict Joshua, his namesake, and the battle of Jericho on one side, with the trumpets and the falling walls of the city. The other leg contained the story of Moses leading the people out of Egypt, with the waves of the Red Sea washing up the sides of the altar in splendid beauty. “I couldn’t have imagined a more beautiful altar.”

“It’s a shame you will never be married before it,” JC said, for such an altar called for a magnificent celebration. He knew that Cristoforo would never take a wife, nor would he baptize a child. It was not in his nature.

Cristoforo brushed off the comment with a laugh. “And I’m more grateful for it, for a wife is a headache I will never have to endure.” JC smiled at that, for he was happy that Cristoforo was content with his status in life. There had been a new young man around lately, a sailor from Northern Europe with light eyes. He looked vaguely familiar, but JC could not place him, only his accent, so much like Justin’s. It hurt JC to hear it sometimes, but he would not say so. The young man made Cristoforo happy.

“Come,” he said, drawing Cristoforo back to the door. “I’ve spent too much time in this room lately and crave fresh air.”

**

JC stayed, even after the altar was finished. He had nowhere else to go. Cristoforo’s home was large enough and gave him rooms with real glass windows that opened to let in the sea breeze. JC had all of the time in the world to sculpt, without the pressure of patrons or tax collectors. It was the perfect existence, he thought.

Yet there was still a part of him that longed for the tiny rooms by the river in Florence, and the time that was. The city had gone to ruin with plague again, or so JC had heard. It was better that he was gone.

Reminiscing was dangerous he thought, sitting on the padded bench under the window. The velvet pricked at his legs through his hose, and his eyes played tricks on him because the man coming down the road almost looked like Justin. JC wretched his eyes away from the window and went back to work, picking up his chisel and carving away at the leg of Mary Magdalene in the moment she first saw the Lord after the resurrection. She hovered, her hand inches from Jesus’ body, as he warned her not to touch. He’d seen a painting of the scene and felt it didn’t quite capture the realness of the moment. His hands had itched to do better.

Lost in his work, JC frowned when a shadow cut across the light that fell in from the window. He looked up, expecting to see a fallen curtain blocking out the sun. Rather, a figure stood, cased in shadow as the sun glowed behind him.

He couldn’t see the face but he knew who it was. Slowly, JC stood, his heart beating in his chest, blood rushing to his ears. His knees felt weak and wobbly, so he leaned against the statute for support.

“Justin,” he said, but his voice cracked and the word came out half-formed. The man before him moved closer, until JC could see the hesitant arch of his eyebrows and the half-smile painted on his lips. He looked different than JC had remembered. Older, and perhaps more worldly. It showed in his eyes, and in the rigid square of his shoulders.

“I can’t believe it’s really you,” Justin said, reaching out to touch. His hand twisted in JC’s loose curls, fingering them gently. “I’ve been looking for you for so long.”

“You have?” His mind reeled. JC had always thought that Justin had left him and never looked back. He’d never heard word, not once in all those years. Perhaps. “I didn’t know.”

“When I went back to Florence, Giuseppe told me that you’d left with Cristoforo, but he could not remember where you’d gone. I thought. No one had heard, the city was.” Justin swallowed as if trying to get a bitter taste out of his mouth. “Changed.”

JC nodded mutely. He knew Florence was no longer the artists haven it had been. But that was hardly worthy of his attention. There were more important things. “You came back?”

“Of course.” Justin’s hand let go of JC’s curls and traced his cheek gently. His fingers were icy cold. JC didn’t care at all. “After finishing two pieces, I returned but you were gone. I thought you’d be there, and you weren’t. I didn’t know where to go, so I just started looking for you.”

“Now you’ve found me,” JC said with a wavering smile. He knew that Justin was the one who’d search had ended, but he couldn’t help but think that he was the one who had finally located a treasure. His mind couldn’t formulate words, and the only thing he could think of to say was “How was Milan?”

Justin blinked, a bit taken aback by the question. JC grimaced inwardly.

“It was good. It’s very different from Florence. It was lonely.” He rubbed his hand over his head, where his golden curls were trimmed shorter than before. “I missed you. I counted the days until I could return. I worked long into the night to finish early so that I could leave.”

“It took you a long time. Two years,” JC noted. He’d waited, he realized. He hadn’t known he was waiting, but he knew that all of the time that had passed since Justin had left, he had been waiting. It stung, to realize he was so dependent on another man. To realize that his entire life could stop without him even realizing.

“It did. I had two commissions, large works. I wish that you could see them.” Justin touched JC’s statue. “None were this beautiful, though.”

“Don’t lie,” JC said automatically. He knew works that came from Justin’s hands would surpass any he created. If not now, then someday, with more skill. It did not bother him, but he did not want Justin to downplay his talent.

“I don’t,” Justin said, but with less conviction. He sighed. “This isn’t the conversation I imagined having when I found you.”

“What would you have said?” JC asked.

“That each day without you is like a day without air. The world suffocates me when you are not by my side.”

“You no longer need a teacher,” JC reminded him. Justin had outgrown JC’s usefulness and left.

“I need a lover,” Justin proclaimed. “Not just someone to take to bed, but someone to share my art and my passion with. I cannot imagine that person being anyone but you. It has always been you. Even before I came to Florence, I think that I dreamed it was you.”

“We are not in Florence any longer,” JC reminded him. “That world is gone.” Savonarola was gone now too, JC knew, but his legacy still echoed through the streets. Maybe someday it would be a safe city for artists and sodomites again, but that time had not yet come. They were in a new world.

But, perhaps, that did not mean giving up all aspects of the old life. Cristoforo had found a way. Perhaps JC and Justin could as well.

“I know. You’re working here now,” Justin said, looking around the stately room. JC’s suite had separate rooms for art and for living, so he no longer had to clean a layer of dust off of his pillow before going to sleep at night. “It looks nice.”

“It is,” JC said automatically. He took Justin’s hand in his, knowing what needed to be said next. “Stay with me.”

Justin studied him with serious eyes, not smiling at all. “Yes.” His eyes shone with love, the purest bluestone against his alabaster skin.

“I mean it.” JC tightened his grip. He was never going to let Justin go again.

“I know.” Justin pulled JC tightly into his arms, holding him fast. “I know.”

END


	2. Pesce Ingannevole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cristoforo's story

The warm breeze blew in from the sea and tousled Cristoforo’s hair as he lay in bed. He smiled and burrowed further into the covers, tugging the soft sheets higher above his head and shutting out the world for a little longer. He’d been in Napoli for three days and was still adjusting to the climate change. Unlike Florence, it was warm and sunny here all day long, and the clouds never kept the sun away from the early morning hours to let a body rest.

He was awake, though, and knew sleep would not come again. With a grumble he threw the covers from his body and stood, stretching to the heavens with a prayer to the Lord that he’d survived the night to live another day.

His bed was empty. It saddened him, for he’d left Nico behind when fleeing the city. The boy had family who would have been devastated to have him run off with his lover. Nico had to care for his family, as Cris had to care for his. When his father had summoned him to Napoli to take a greater role in the family’s shipping business, he’d gone. It wasn’t a hard decision- with the Medici power being threatened by the Pazzi family and Savonarola bringing down hellfire and brimstone, the art culture that Cris had loved was dying a slow and brutal death.

In Napoli, though, the rebirth of culture lived. There were statues in the work, though marble was rarer in the southern coast. Bronze was the rage here, which inspired Cristoforo in ways he’d never imagined before. He was eager to test out the local artists to judge their talents. JC was already at work in the chapel, letting the work mend his broken heart. He too had lost a lover.

**

The fleet, upon inspection, was operating well. Most of the ships were in port ready to sail for points along the Mediterranean Coast and beyond. His father had, in recent years, hired on sailors from other nations in attempt to increase profits and expand his business.

“Good morning,” he nodded to the sailors who’d stood guard through the night while their shipmates drank away their wages. Cris could playact the role of the businessman, but he wasn’t comfortable there for long so he moved quickly along the wharf, showing the men that they were being watched so they weren’t tempted to misbehave.

“Excuse me.” He tried to slide behind a young man coiling rope, perhaps brushing a bit too closely. He had, after all, a beautiful ass peaking out from his short tunic. The man blushed and shuffled closer to the edge of the dock to allow Cris to pass.

Cris smiled. “You’re awfully active this early in the morning,” Cris paused to talk to the young man, enchanted by the beautiful green eyes. He wanted to have them painted, to stare into the in his study and ponder the mysteries of the universe. How did something so beautiful work on a boat when he should be worshiped?

“Where are you from?” Cris asked in Latin, hoping the man had an education. The man’s clothes were worn from months at sea, and he knew that the ship where he worked had just arrived from Northern Europe.

“England. Salisbury, actually, though I’ve lived here and there. Did my schooling in Canterbury, and Oxford some.” He stacked the coiled rope on a piling and leaned back against it, folding his arms. “My mother wanted me to enter the church, but the sea called to me. I wanted to see the places Caesar saw, to trace the footsteps of Achilles.” The man paused, blushing. “I’m sure you didn’t want all of that. My apologies. It’s been a while since I’ve spoken in Latin.”

Cristoforo smiled widely, enchanted with the man before him. He must have been older than he appeared, for his tanned skin and light hair gave him the look of a teenager. “What is your name?” Cristoforo asked, wondering if he could lure this young man away from the boat. Fascinatingly, he wanted to hear more. Cristoforo never wanted to talk with his colleagues, unless it was after a romp of sex and they were too tired to do more than lay in bed and whisper.

The young man smiled. “James Bass.”

“A proper name for a proper Englishman. But tell me, on the high seas, with all of your adventures. What good is a proper name like that?” Cristoforo teased. “Tell me the name you would choose, given the chance.”

The young man cocked his head and thought, a half smile dancing on his lips. “I supposed it would be Lancelot, then, after the great British knight.”

Cris smiled widely. “Lance, then. Will you join me for breakfast, Lance?”

“It is time for lunch, for the hour’s near noon, but I’ll join you for a meal regardless.” The man called orders to his colleagues on the ship, then left the dock with Cris, stumbling twice on the rough wooden planks, still wearing off his sea legs.

**

They dined on pasta and cream sauce, sipped spiced wine, and talked about the places Lance had been on his journeys. They laughed about the troubles he’d had in Constantinople, trying to understand the Turkish port authorities, and the stowaway who’d made it all the way to shore before getting caught.

“He’d managed to stay hidden through the trip, but someone saw him getting off. I chased him all the way down along the Arno from the Ponte Vecchio to the city gates before he bumped into someone had I caught up.” Lance shook his head. “All the way to Italy, and I caught him on shore.”

Cristoforo smiled. “You’ve been to Florence.”

“I have, and seen the great works of art there.”

“It is the city of my birth, and of my heart,” Cristoforo admitted. He thought fondly of his days there. “I have only just arrived in Napoli.”

“Then I suppose I cannot count on you for a tour of the city,” Lance said, finishing his wine. “We do not set sail again for a fortnight, when the winds will be swifter.”

Cris thought briefly of how inappropriate it would be to invite Lance to the villa, then decided that he did not care. “Stay with me,” he blurted out forwardly, not even cringing at the boldness. “I have an artist working in the chapel of the villa. I’m sure he’d love to have company to discuss classical sculpture. He’s trained with some of the best from the Papal States and beyond, considered quite a master.”

“Are you trying to lure me with art?” Lance smiled wickedly, as if he knew all of Cris’s tricks after only a few hours. Cris realized, suddenly, that Lance knew exactly what Cris was after.

“Perhaps,” he answered vaguely, for he was still unsure as to Lance’s disposition toward men. Cris wondered how much time he’d spent among the art groups in Florence, how far he understood their culture.

His nerves relaxed when the wickedness faded to amusement in Lance’s face. “I’d love to see the chapel,” he said, “and to sleep on land for a while. The ship bunks are small and uncomfortable. A true bed would be a luxury I’ve dreamt of.”

Cris felt the blood rush to his groin when he thought of Lance in bed, the angled, muscled body entwined with his own. He somehow managed to stutter out a reply, but he was sure it wasn’t very coherent. His mind was already racing forward to the time when they’d be out of the public eye and able to do more than talk about art and politics.

**

Lance was fascinated with the statues in Cris’s home. He’d had them shipped carefully from Florence over a series of months to the villa, arranging them through the rooms and gardens. The faces of past lovers shown in the statues of Apollo, different scenes of the Bacchus, or select Olympians. Cris had never taken to religious art, and therefore never faced the dilemma of confusing his young lovers with the Lord Christ while in prayer.

“These are beautiful,” Lance said, trailing his hands along the arms of a discus thrower. “The proportions are exact, and the expression. You can feel the concentration here,” he said, touching the stone furrow between the hurler’s brows.

“The artist was a youth, only just beginning. An Englishman, like yourself,” Cris thought, remembering young Justin and his eagerness. “It’s probably better not to mention this one to JC,” he said. “They were quite close and JC is still… temperamental when his former apprentice is mentioned.” He purposely let Lance think they’d had a falling out rather than revealing their relationship. Old habits, he thought.

Outside, the sun shone high in the summer sky as Cris escorted Lance through the gardens to the chapel. The sounds of a chisel echoed off the garden walls, a rhythmic, quick tapping as stone fell. There was a fine dust covering everything inside, including the artist.

“JC,” Cris called. “This is Lance, a sailor. He’s come to visit for a few weeks.”

JC rose from his crouch in the corner and wiped his hands on dusty trousers. “Hello,” he said cheerfully, “Welcome to Napoli.”

“Thank you,” Lance answered. “This is beautiful,” he said, looking around. There was not much done, but the tiny decorative swirls in the corner where JC had begun were exquisite.

“It’s nothing of what it will be. You must return when it is done to see it. It will be the finest chapel in all of Italy.”

Cris watched Lance carefully as he studied the carving with fascination. “Do you want to be an artist?” he asked.

Lance smiled. “Oh, but that I had the talent. I can draw a tree well enough, but ask me to carve or to paint anything more, and I’m afraid it still just looks like a tree.”

JC laughed. “We all have our talents, to find and use. If we were all artists, no one would sail the seas or bake the bread.”

“And what does Cris do?” Lance asked facetiously.

With a smile, JC answered “He pays the artists and provides for their basic needs.”

Lance smiled. “A true patron, then.” With a nudge into Cris’s arm, he laughed lowly. “I like that.” His voice was deep and echoed in the big, empty room, stirring Cris’s urging to once again get this man alone. He longed for the days of Florence when he could claim a young man and drag him away. This game, he was not used to.

They discussed JC’s plans for the chapel for a bit longer, but JC was anxious to get back to work. Walking back through the gardens, Lance stayed close, their arms brushing together.

“I’m like that,” he finally said quietly. “If you’re wondering.”

Cris stopped walking and turned. The world was oddly quiet, except for the steady tap of the chisel. “Are you sure?”

Lance nodded. “It’s why I did not enter the church. There are all notions of secrets on the ships, so it seemed a good place. I’ve been with men before, I promise you.”

Not expecting such forwardness, Cris touched Lance’s shoulder gingerly. “Are you sure?” he asked again

In answer, Lance pressed his lips against Cris’s in a chaste but promising kiss. “I would not be here if I was not,” he assured. “But if we could go inside? I do not wish to scare your sculptor.”

Cris laughed at the thought of JC being shocked by a bit of sodomy. If only Lance knew. “Come then,” he said, and led Lance indoors.

**

Lance was not a confident lover, but he was steady as a ship on a calm sea. His lips were soft and pliant, his tongue slick and curious. They kissed for long satisfying moments in the heat of the afternoon sun that streamed through the west windows of Cris’s bed chambers. When Cris stroked behind Lance’s ear, Lance shivered and grasped more tightly to Cris’s shoulders. Cris allowed him to cling, for the warm body pressed against his delighted him in innumerable ways.

When Lance’s hands slid downward, away from Cris’s shoulders to his chest to weave through dark hair to find a nipple, Cris himself nearly shuddered.

“Do you like that?” Lance asked in a low whisper that rumbled around Cris’s heart.

“Mmmm.” On a moan he stepped backwards, pulling Lance to the bed. He settled him down on his back before kneeling before him. His eyes were drawn to the bulge at the top of Lance’s trousers. He touched it reverently, feeling the hardness beneath.

“Do you want me to take them off?” Lance asked. Cris could scarcely reply before, in a flash, they were racing toward nudeness, desperate to feel the soft glide of skin against skin.

Cris was unbearably arousing, having spent weeks away from the pleasures of the flesh. The repressed desires burst forward as he studied Lance’s pale skin, the muscles and curve of his hip, the leaking red cock that curved upward from a patch of dark hair. He stroked it carefully, watching Lance’s eyes fall backward, cupping his other hand lower where his fingers could squeeze and tease.

“Have you welcomed a lover inside before?” Cris asked, pressing gently at the tiny opening behind Lance’s balls. Lance was a bit old for fucking, but he could not help but ask. Perhaps his time at sea had shaken him free of the customs of land that relegated only teenage boys to female roles.

“Yes,” Lance said, though the look on his face revealed more than his words. There was a trace of fear in his eyes, enough for Cris to realize that Lance was not as experienced as he’d let on, probably still new enough to the arts of loving men that the pain was fresh each time. He let his hands fall away without further pursuit.

“Another time,” he promised as twin waves of relief and disappointment washed over Lance’s face. Cris kissed him again, confirming his desire, hovering his body above Lance’s so that their cocks were aligned. They were the same height, which was a nice change. Cris’s last lover had been much too tall to bed this way.

With kisses growing fiercer, Cris lowered his body onto Lance’s, thrusting slowly as pressed up against his hip. He felt Lance’s hands grasp at his bottom and gasped, the sound absorbed into another heated kiss. It was not long before Lance pulled him down tightly and with a few quick thrusts came, mouth fallen open, head thrown back to the mattress. Cris kissed his neck and continued to rub, letting the friction drive him wild. It was maddening, the feeling, like standing at the edge of a cliff looking down at the ocean. The waves crashed higher and higher until he was overtaken, body shuddering release.

They lay panting, separating only so far as to each fall onto the bed, desperate to catch their breath. The sun had dipped low enough that the room was filled with amber orange. Soon, it would be time to light the candles and lanterns.

“Do you still want to stay?” Cris asked, suddenly fearful that Lance may have only been after some quick gratification before heading back to the ship. He would have been dreadfully devastated if that were the case. The young sailor had become fiercely appealing.

“If the offer still stands,” Lance answered. He smiled gently and brushed back a piece of hair from Cris’s forehead. “Thank you.”

Cris took Lance’s hand in his and kissed the knuckles tenderly, not saying any more.

**

Lance did not have an ear for languages, so Cris’s daily attempts to teach him Italian did not progress very far.

“Vino,” he said, holding up the glass. ”Vino Rosa,” he added, since it was indeed red wine.

“I know those words,” Lance complained. “Teach me something useful.”

“Wine,” Chris argued, “is the most useful word you can have in Italy. If you have wine, you will never be unhappy a day in your life.”

They sat on the side of the hill of Vomero. Lance had wanted to see the mighty castle at the top, and Cris knew that there were pleasing views of the city from its peak. Vesuvius dominated the distant skyline, and the harbor islands stood out in dark relief against the twinkling sea. It was a beautiful place, Cris knew, and he wondered how he could have ever loved Florence when it was so far from the sea.

“Tell me of your adventures, then,” Cris asked, popping a grape from the bunch they’d packed in a rucksack for lunch. There were plates of antipasto too, and thick knots of bread. “Tell me of the sea.”

Lance smiled. “I’ve been so many places,” he began. He told of the land of the Vikings, where men spoke in strange dialects that didn’t even sound like languages. They traded for fish, there, and beautiful weavings. “It’s not as nice as here, though,” he said.

“Why do you say that?” Cris asked. It sounded exotic and frightening to him. The land of the Vikings. He marveled at the thought of such barbarianism.

“Italy is beauty. It is history. The world began here, in Italy. Or, at least the civilized world. Italy made art, it made government. It made empires. It makes wine,” he added with a smile, sipping from his cup. “Vino.”.

“Very good,” Cris praised. He lay down on his side on the grass, head propped up on his hand, elbow digging into the earth. “You are learning.”

“I’m learning a great many things,” Lance teased, making Cris blush with the memory. They had been enjoying each others’ pleasure for more than a week and, Cris found, were nearly insatiable.

He wanted to kiss Lance, but stopped himself only inches away. He could feel Lance’s warm breath on the skin of his cheek.

“Bello,” he said quietly.

“What’s that mean?” Lance asked.

“Beautiful.”

**

Cris had to spend several hours each day updating his father’s accounts, a task he dreaded. The receipts from several ships would arrive by messenger in the morning and he had to balance the ledgers by the end of the business day, to ensure all merchants had been paid in due time and all orders placed before the close of business in the city.

While he worked, Lance would wander, sometimes in the gardens and other times into the city. Cris often wondered what Lance was thinking during his sojourns, if he missed his family or life at sea. He hoped that Lance might consider returning to Napoli soon, for he knew he would miss him when Lance was gone.

“You are dreaming,” a voice teased from the doorway and Cris looked up to see JC, wearing clean clothes, hair wet from bathing.

“Look at you, all shining. Is there an occasion?” Cris asked.

JC shrugged. “There is only so much dust one can take before craving a long, hot bath. I thank you for providing me a place where I can have one in luxury.” He sat in a chair across the long table from Cris and propped his feet up on another. “I’ve made good progress this week. You may inspect it, if you wish.”

Cris smiled and closed his ledger. The sun had fallen far enough in its arc that he knew he’d worked long enough for the day. “I trust you,” he told JC. “You’ve never steered me wrong.” They both looked to the corner, where JC’s nude Apprentice stood handsomely.

“Your sailor seems quite smitten,” JC said casually.

“Do you think?” Cris was not used to taking lovers who did not fawn upon him with affection. “He’ll be gone at the end of the week, regardless.”

“Has he said that?” JC asked.

“He’s said nothing to indicate otherwise. He’s got adventure in his soul and would never be happy here. Do you know he’s seen the pyramids of Egypt and sailed up the Nile? Lance is a wanderer; he is not meant to a life of bookkeeping.” Cris thumbed the corners of his ledger so that they made a ruffling noise.

JC did not respond right away. His eyes were still riveted on his statue, contemplating the face of his former lover. “The biggest mistake of my life was that I never asked him to stay,” he finally said, his voice quiet.

“Do you think he would have?”

JC’s stare pivoted to Cris, the look in his eyes indecipherable. “I’m not sure. But I wish that I could know one way or the other.”

“Lance is not my student. It’s a completely different situation.”

“Right, of course. Still,” JC said, rising to his feet, “I will never know if maybe, I might have kept my love. You at least have that opportunity.”

**

In bed, Lance was tender, never rushing or aggressive. He let Cris love him any way Cris desired, without ever hinting that he might want to seek pleasure a different way. It angered Cris, who did not want Lance to think that he did not care for his lover’s happiness.

“Tell me what you like,” Cris insisted, one hand slowly moving on Lance’s cock.

“This is good,” Lance insisted. There were beads of sweat on his forehead despite the cool breeze from the sea. “Faster, though, please.”

Cris obliged, though the bones in his wrist cracked. “What else?” he pleaded, but Lance only shook his head. His eyes squeezed shut and his stomach muscles clenched thrice before Cris’s hand was coated in the sticky seed. With a sigh, he finished Lance off and wiped them both clean with a damp cloth. He crawled up to lay his head on the other pillow.

“Why don’t you ask for more?” Cris asked again, poking Lance in the shoulder so that he would not fall asleep.

Lance smiled. “What more could I want? These have been the best two weeks of my life.” He curled closer to Cris until Cris relented and wrapped the boy in his arms.

“You are leaving soon,” he said. They both knew it was coming, though neither had discussed it until now.

“Aye. The ship sails in two days. For the first time, I am not looking forward to leaving.” He pressed a kiss to the swell of Cris’s shoulder, melting Cris’s heart.

“You will come back this way,” he said, though it was more of a question than statement of fact. JC’s warning rang in his mind, but he ignored it. He could not ask Lance to stay.

“Someday,” Lance answered sadly. “Perhaps.”

“Then I will live in the hope of Someday,” Cris answered. Lance didn’t reply, his even breath a sign of sleep. Still, Cris lay awake long into the night, unable to put his mind to rest. Lance would be leaving soon, and he would be back to life without a lover, and this time, back to life without love.

**

Morosely, Cris wandered the city next day. He thought he might find a token for Lance, something that he could take with him to remember Napoli and Cris. He visited the goldsmith and the jeweler, though nothing caught his eye. The city artisans were busy working on frescoes for the new Cathedral, completely unavailable for last minute commissions. He returned to the villa empty handed, hoping that Lance had finished his preparations in the shipyard and would have some time for him.

He found Lance in the garden, reading a manuscript from the library.

“Ovid,” Cris said, noting the cover. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“It’s good. I’ve never read this before. Sometimes I wander the streets here and think of the great Romans who once lived nearby.” He looked very young, suddenly, far younger than the seducer who came to Cris’s bed each night.

“You may keep it,” Cris said, realizing the gift he’d searched for was suddenly found. “Take it with you, to read at sea. Perhaps you’ll think of me, and Italy.” He smiled sheepishly, but Lance did not laugh. Instead, he stood and softly kissed Cris, with love.

“Thank you,” he whispered, pressing the manuscript against his chest. “I will think of you,” he added.

“And I, you,” Cris replied. “Each and every time I see a ship, I will think of you.”

They said nothing more, but went inside and loved each other, knowing now that it would be the last time.

**

Cris did not go to the shipyard, nor did he watch from the villa as the tall ship retreated from the harbor. Instead, he buried himself in his work. JC was at it again, the steady clack of hammer and chisel drowning out all thoughts of Lance and lost love. When it grew too dark to read the numbers in his ledger, he lit candles and continued.

Finally, his back ached from hunching over the books all day long and he was forced to stop. He blew out the flames that sat on candle stumps and stumbled blindly into the bedroom.

Lance, he thought miserably, sinking to the mattress. He had not wept when he left Nico behind in Florence, for he knew the boy had been an amusement, a pastime. Nico would grow up and marry a nice girl, and together they’d have a brood of children. Cris had never expected otherwise. He realized, sitting on the empty bed, that deep down in his heart, he’d really hoped that Lance would stay.

“But I didn’t ask him,” he lamented, twisting to the side and punching a pillow for emphasis, to work out some of the mad that bubbled up in him. “Stupid fuck, I didn’t ask him.”

“Ask him what?” a voice called. Cris closed his eyes. His mind was playing tricks on him.

“Ask him to stay,” he answered, hoping the phantom would stop haunting him and leave him to his grief.

“I wish you had,” it said instead, and Cris looked to see the dark shadow of a man standing there. There was no moon, no ambient light, but he knew that it was Lance all the same. “It would have made the decision for me to abandon ship so much easier.”

“What?” Cris bumbled confused. He rose, flinging his arms around Lance, kissing him earnestly before getting any answers. The answers were not important. “You’re here.” That was all that mattered.

“I could not leave. I figured there would be another ship, if I ever did desire to sail again. But now, all I wanted was to be here, with you. I hoped that you would not mind.”

“I should have asked. JC told me, and I didn’t listen.”

“It’s a good thing I’m smart enough for both of us, then,” Lance laughed, hugging Cris tighter. He couldn’t breathe, but it might have just been happiness squeezing his heart until it burst.

“Wait, wait,” he said, drawing back to look Lance in the eye. “I need to make it official. Will you stay here, with me? You can learn about art or help me with the ships, for the Lord knows I know nothing about them, or you can just read all day long, but please. James Bass, will you stay?”

Lance kissed him before he answered, but it was fine. Cris already knew the answer.

END


End file.
